Ironcrown Moon (20 page)

He maintained his watch on Fenguard for another hour or so without detecting any unusual arcane activity. The wind-senses of the

Glaumerie Guild members were not as keen as his own, and they remained oblivious. None of them seemed interested in observing Gala, and none of Conrig’s windvoices attempted to communicate with the Conjure-Queen. Thus far, the thieves fleeing with the trove would seem to be safe from Loophole’s invincible oversight. And if Kilian was right about Conrig’s distrust of Ulla, they’d stay that way.

At this minute, the precious books and the sigils were probably being spirited out of the ruins of the palace’s cloister wing by the agents.

Before long, the trove would be on its way north. By day’s end, the well-disguised thieves might be almost halfway to the designated rendezvous in the north country, taking advantage of the initial confusion as Kilian had planned. Beynor himself would be within easy windsearching range of the fleeing agents before another day went by—not that such a search was practical.

Without knowledge of their signatures, or at least their names and physical appearance, he had little chance of scrying them out.

Names and physical appearance…

A half-formed idea crept into his mind, and he drew in his breath sharply, hardly able to acknowledge that such a thing might be possible.

It seemed almost too fortuitous, too perfect.

If Conrig’s officials were efficient in organizing pursuit of the agents, they might unwittingly give Beynor his chance to secure the trove for himself before the thieves could hand it over to Kilian.

The alchymist had rightly feared that Beynor might try to waylay his men and seize the sigils and books; but the revised plan that now suggested itself to the deposed young king was far more ingenious than a simple ambush.

All I need do, Beynor thought, is find them with my mind’s eye. There was no need to confront the men physically or even have a wind-conversation with them. If they simply listened to a certain irresistible temptation insinuated anonymously into their dreams, and succumbed to it, the trove would be his!

And the temptation would be irresistible.

The site of the allurement would have to be chosen with care. It must be a lonely spot, where no one was likely to stumble upon the abandoned books and sigils before he retrieved them.

Kilian was no problem. Even if his windpowers were somehow restored, he’d be unable to scry out the unscriable. No adept could oversee magical moonstones. They were secure from the windsight of every sorcerer save Ullanoth and her Subtle Loophole, and she had no reason to go looking for them because she didn’t know they existed.

Such a simple plan… He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He’d wait a few hours, until Conrig’s officials recovered from the initial shock of the conflagration and organized the pursuit of the fire-raisers. Images of the suspects with their names would surely be transmitted by palace alchymists to every reliable wind adept and wizard in the southern part of the Sovereignty. The magickers would be commanded to draw up reward notices carrying the pictures and post them in all the principal towns of Cathra and Didion.

What Beynor had to do was scry one of those notices—trickier than it might seem—or find
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some person willing to do the job for him.

Unfortunately, he had few loyal friends left, and most of them lived in Moss, too far away to be of use.

It came to him.

There was someone he could bespeak, someone who would—by the end of the day, if not before—have obtained a full description of the awful events that had taken place down in Gala.

One who would probably also know whether those responsible for the conflagration had been identified, and how the hunt for them was progressing. The man he was minded to bespeak was by no means completely trustworthy, but neither was he a friend to the Sovereign of Blenholme.

He’d probably tell the truth, as he knew it, especially if Beynor file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/May,%20Julian%20-%20[Bor...0-%20Boreal%20Moon%202%20

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon passed on useful information of his own in exchange.

All I need do is wait, he thought, until matters in the south have stabilized a bit, and Queen Risalla’s wizards have transmitted details of the disaster to their colleagues in Holt Mallburn.

The choppy waves had subsided a little, and Beynor finally dozed off in spite of himself. His dream was a familiar one—frightening to begin with, as the small boy found himself trapped on the broad flats of the Darkling River with the oncoming tide racing toward him.

The dream turned even more terrifying when the red-eyed monsters appeared, surging up out of a deepwater channel to seize him while he screamed.

Then the dream became amazing and joyous as he realized that the fearsome creatures were rescuing him! The reclusive Salka of the

Little Fen had for some reason taken pity on the doomed small human. In time they would befriend him, teach him their language, and open his mind to the world of the wind and the potential of the magical moonstones—

Beynor woke with a cry of pain. The speeding boat crashed and smacked over the waves with stunning violence, hurling him against the gunwale and dousing him with icy seawater. The pleasant dream was extinguished, leaving reality.

He began screaming furious curses at the amphibious brutes in the tow harnesses, not stopping until Ugusawnn, the Supreme Warrior, compelled his companions to slow down.

==========

The two brown-robed Brother Caretakers who brought breakfast to the prisoners could hardly stop talking about the disaster, even though they seemed to know few details aside from the obvious: the entire cloister wing of Gala Palace was burning fiercely, and the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos, had been so badly hurt that physicians feared for his life.

“But how could a fire take hold and spread in a place housing so many wind adepts?” Kilian asked. “Surely their combined powers would have stopped the flames in their tracks.”

“It’s said the incendiary agent was tarnblaze.” The older of the caretakers spoke in a tone freighted with dread. “That stuff can’t be quenched by talent, and it gives off great heat. I didn’t talk to anyone at the palace myself, of course. My powers are too puny. But the Brother Cellarer was in the kitchen when we fetched your food, and he had windspeech with his opposite number down there, who said there were two great explosions inside the Alchymical Library. It had to be tarnblaze. And not simple firepots, either: steel bombshells!”

“How dreadful,” Kilian said. “I shall pray for Lord Stergos, of course, but the loss of all those precious books is also devastating.”

“Books!” the second caretaker piped up. “Nearly forgot, what with all the excitement.” He opened a lidded basket smaller than the ones that had held the food, took out several volumes and some candles, and began passing them through the door hoppers to the prisoners.

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When he came to Kilian’s cell he said, “Prior Waringlow selected this book for you special, my lord. He hopes it’ll help you pass the time. Just poke the candlewick through the wire mesh on this peep slot and I’ll get it burning for you.” Using a bit of straw, he transferred flame from the wall lantern.

“Please tell Father Prior that I’m grateful for his kindness,” Kilian said. His cronies also murmured thanks as the other caretaker lit their candles.

“Is there aught else you need, my lord?” The older Brother added sheepishly, “Save liberty, o’course.”

“We have no view of the outer world.” Kilian gave a sad sigh. “Tell me—is this Solstice Day sunny and bright?”

“A bit overcast. What we countryfolk call buttermilk sky. There might be rain before the midnight chime.”

“Ah. Thank you, Brother.”

“We’ll see you again at suppertime. Should be a fine meal. We’re roasting six pigs and four fatted calves in honor of the holiday.” He and his companion gathered up the empty baskets and left the dungeon.

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“Rain!” Cleaton exclaimed. “Our prayers are answered.”

“So it would seem,” said Kilian. “But no more talk. Let’s eat our food before it gets any colder.”

The meal was an excellent one—bread rolls with a crock of honey-butter, boiled eggs, a cheese ramekin, and a squat jug of brown ale.

But instead of following his own order, Kilian opened the book he had received and leafed through the pages. Almost immediately he found just what he expected.

Drawing the candle closer, he began to read the note from Prior Waringlow. When he finished he burned the bit of parchment, then ate with a hearty appetite.

==========

The next time Beynor woke the sky was grey and the sea undulated with great slow rollers. He crawled out from under the dodger and saw the dark, hunched forms of the Salka surging through the water. Eight of them were linked to his boat and ten more functioned as outriders, leading the way towards a distant black peninsula with a tip like a gnarled finger pointing south.

Beynor recognized the distinctive silhouette of Gribble Head. Beyond it was the entrance to Didion Bay, and at the bay’s end was the mouth of the River Malle, and King Honigalus’s capital city of Holt Mallburn.

His skin garments were sodden and slimy, so he took time to shed them and don dry things from one of the sacks. Then he took the makings of a meal from another. Just as he’d been forced to improvise clothing during his stay with the monsters, he had also developed his own food supply. The Salka had plenty of seafood, but they invariably ate it raw. By trial and error, Beynor learned to cook and smoke fish and other marine edibles. He eked out his diet with the starchy tubers of the reedmace, boiled or baked, and small quantities of berries he could glean from the tundra surrounding the citadel. For seasoning he had sea-salt and an onionlike arctic plant with red flowers that the Salka called cheev

. His only beverages were water and various herbal teas. Beynor’s talent now heated up a flask of willow-wintergreen tisane, which not only alleviated his chill but also took away the worst of his aches and pains. He ate a slab of smoked salmon and some of the bland roots. Then he settled himself comfortably and prepared to bespeak Fring Bulegosset, the Archwizard of Didion.

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First Beynor scried him—a hunched, fleshy man with pallid features, whose dark-lashed blue eyes had a frankly sensuous gleam. He wore an elegant robe of black brocade and a matching skullcap. As Beynor watched he moved about a small alchymical laboratory gathering stoppered phials and small boxes, which he then packed carefully into a compartmented leather traveling bag. No doubt he was getting ready to accompany the royal family on its progress upriver tomorrow.

Fring was Didion’s most powerful windtalent—which wasn’t saying much. That barbarian nation’s finest adepts were half-baked dabblers compared to the top conjurers of Moss or Tarn.

Even Cathra’s Brothers of Zeth possessed more innate magical talent. But Fring was reasonably competent, and if rumors from Beynor’s confidants in Moss could be believed, the Arch-wizard was also a political malcontent who secretly favored Somarus, the rebel brother of the Didionite king.

It was high time Beynor and Fring became reacquainted.

“Archwizard! Respond to one who knew you some years ago, and now wishes to share certain valuable information.”

Who’s that? Good God

—

it’s the failed boy-king, Beynor of Moss

!

“To be sure—but now I’m a man of one-and-twenty, and preparing to mend my somewhat battered fortunes. Do you recall the last time we were in contact? You and Honigalus were aboard the flagship of Didion’s war-fleet, sailing south to attack Cathra while Conrig crept in through your back door and sacked Holt Mallburn.”

Of course I remember. You were Didion’s staunch ally then. Honigalus bade you use your Weathermaker sigil to speed our vessels along to Cala Bay, while delaying the Tarnian mercenaries who were coming to the aid of Cathra. As I recall, you did a fine job of it. So fine that the huge storm you created sank the navies of Cathra and Didion without discrimination to say nothing of the luckless Tarnians

—

and a flock of Continental corsairs

.

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“It was my sister Ullanoth who unwittingly caused the storm, not I! And by good fortune, you survived. Less happily, so did Conrig…

and Honigalus. If either man had perished, both our nations would have been spared vassalage.”

I am the loyal servant of the King of Didion. And of his liege lord, Conrig Wincantor.

“Of course you are. But how much happier we both would be if a stouter-hearted monarch ruled in Holt Mallburn. One who would never have signed the damned Edict of Sovereignty.

You know who I mean! The information I wish to share with you concerns him. But if you aren’t interested—”

I’m very interested in anything that might pertain to a certain brave prince, who is always in my prayers.

“I thought as much. I’ve learned something that may redound greatly to his advantage. And that of his good friends! But before I speak of it—

You want something in return.

“A mere trifle. As it happens, I’m curious about the conflagration that took place earlier today at Cala Palace. My windsight is insufficiently powerful to oversee it directly, just as your own is,
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but I hoped that wizards in Queen Risalla’s entourage would have bespoken you concerning what happened. Were many people killed or injured?”

Why do you wish to know?

“I’ll be frank with you, Fring. I hate Conrig Wincantor with every fiber of my being. He conspired with my sister to rob me of my throne.